Album: other songs

The Last Of Their Breed

Picking up birds from their river
sweat inside their safety-suits
the tears inside the vizor
hopeless
the river boils

a man fishing without equipment
his bald head uncovered
empty stare like muddy water
all the same
the factory´s closed

foul wind in the branches
rusty vortex around my feet
where would I hang the birdhouse
home of the last small bird

chains have been broken off the swings
the last game has been played
hiding somewhere scared
children, last of their breed